


From Heel to Throat

by deepdownstarkraves



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepdownstarkraves/pseuds/deepdownstarkraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of Deep Breath. Clara never has that heart to heart confrontation with Vastra and the Doctor never calls. After his regeneration, she and the Doctor must define their relationship on their own terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

i.

Less than a day after the Doctor’s regeneration, Clara finds herself, for the very first time, thinking of past companions. She is never foolish enough to fancy herself the only one, the special one. She is human in every breath she takes and in each definite beat of her heart; the Doctor is Methuselah. And it is only inevitable he draws other humans to him, enticed by what he offers: stars burning bright and dying under his gaze and time and space dancing on his fingertips. It is the closest thing she will ever taste to immortality.

Clara understands, down to her very bones, why those nameless, faceless companions stay. But as she gazes at the Doctor, lets her stare linger over the new, deep lines circling his mouth, his severe frown, and finally his eyes, blue and piercing in the light of the TARDIS, she wants to know why they leave, wonders what would drive her to abandon such a wondrous life with him.

Clara glances away, pretending to fuss over her skirt, when the Doctor’s attention comes to focus on her. She ignores how her pulse quickens under his open scrutiny. Long, tortuous moments draw out before he finally looks away, fiddling with something on the console as she breathes a soft sigh of relief. Honestly, if she had known the Doctor would spend his last moments hallucinating about another woman named _Amelia—_

Clara stops that train of thought before she can finish it. She needs to be more careful. She is _this_ close to thinking herself a woman scorned and that is just plain stupid, pathetic even. She tries not to but it’s only a matter of time before her mind begins to wander once more. 

She closes her eyes, concentrates, and it’s easy to picture the very last time the Doctor’s hand found hers, how his fingers traced her wrist, how her skin tingled from his touch. But most of all, she remembers his hair tickling her forehead as he leaned down to press his lips to her temple and whisper fondly in her ear, “Clara, my Clara. My impossible girl—”

A hand lands on her shoulder. “Clara.”

Clara visibly startles and stumbles back, her hip knocking into the console as she tries to get her bearings. The Doctor, his hand hovering mid-air, slowly lowers it back to his side. His surprised look quickly gives way to something inscrutable and Clara hates that expression because she can't figure out what he's thinking, not like before. He always used to let her see what he was feeling or thinking or—

She pivots away from him, her eyes drawn to a discarded bow tie still lying on the floor. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I got lost in my thoughts. Did you say something?”

“We’re here,” the Doctor says from somewhere behind her.

“Here?”

There’s a pause and the only sound between them is the gentle hum of the engine. Clara can feel his eyes on her again. “Your home,” he finally answers.

Clara nods. “Right. I should…I should probably get my things then.”

She only has her satchel and as she makes her way toward the exit, on impulse, Clara swiftly bends down and scoops up the bow tie the Doctor left behind, stuffing it into her bag. When she opens the TARDIS and steps out, Clara flinches slightly at the deafening clap of thunder that sounds around her. Thick, dark storm clouds come together as white light flashes sporadically. Heavy drops of water, carried by strong wind, stream down her face.

Clara turns on her heel to see the Doctor standing at the threshold, silently offering her an umbrella. Neither of them choose to mention how easily the TARDIS could have landed inside her flat. Even still, Clara tries for a smile, is certain it comes off looking forced, and gently pushes the umbrella back into his open hand, her fingers brushing his knuckles as she does so.

“Same time next week then?” she inquires softly.

Clara’s sure the Doctor won't be able to hear her over the thunder but he gives a jerk of his head and says, “If that’s what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want.” She plays with the strap of her satchel, stands there in front of him for a moment longer before she, without another word, turns and starts for home.

“It’s just you and me now, Clara,” the Doctor says.

Clara comes to a stop and faces him. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch his arm with her palm. And if she did, it still wouldn't lessen the great distance she feels between them in this very moment. Even now, Clara can’t bring herself to say what needs to be said because the words are lodged tight somewhere in her throat. Speaking in half-truths and barely managing furtive glances, is this what they have come to, after everything? Is this how she will leave him?

“You and me,” Clara repeats. “Just like it’s always been, yeah?”

A look passes over the Doctor’s face but it lingers long enough for Clara to recognise it’s the same, guarded stare Vastra gave her when she thought Clara wasn’t looking. Less than a day since his regeneration and the Doctor settles into his new skin with apparent ease thanks to countless practice. The Doctor has lived her life span a thousand times over, will live a thousand more. He can survive anything, live with anything, and there isn’t anything anyone can do to him now, least of all her. Him standing in front of her is a testament to that. And Clara wants to be like that so badly because what she feels right now—

“No,” the Doctor finally answers, his tone clipped again. “No, not really.”

The TARDIS doors shut behind him as the engine wheezes and groans, signalling its impending departure. Clara doesn’t wait for the police box to disappear entirely before she walks away. The frigid rain bites at her bare neck and mud soaks through her flats and her stockings but she can barely feel it.

As she enters her flat, Clara wiggles her feet until her mucky shoes slip off. She slams the door with her hip as she yanks her jumper over her head and onto the floor, her button-down quickly follows. As she strides through the sitting room, she hooks her thumbs under the elastic of her skirt and stockings and pulls them down in one forceful shove. She reaches her bedroom in her soaked bra and knickers, crawls under her duvet, and dumps her wet satchel onto her nightstand.

Clara rummages through her bag and pulls out a picture of her and the Doctor. It’s old and faded from her constant handling; her favourite picture, her favourite moment, creased and dog-eared at the edges. She studies the Doctor’s smiling face for a long time.

“You prat,” Clara mutters. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

As she stares at the photograph, she feels her throat tighten painfully, feels the warm, prickling sensation behind her eyes. And even when Clara buries her face in her pillow, tears still manage to seep through her lases and roll down her face.


	2. II

ii.

Clara is on her way to meet up with Danny in Camden when she notices the TARDIS from her peripheral. It’s nestled among a cluster of gangly trees near the end of the road that leads to her flat. She sprints toward it before she realizes what she’s doing, knowing—hoping—the Doctor is here for her but afraid he will vanish the moment she looks away. But as she draws closer, Clara skids to a halt.

She has not seen the Doctor in three months, the longest he’s ever been away from her. For him, that could be a lifetime, more than long enough to not want her around. And Clara is certain the moment she opens this door, he will be standing on the other side, his hands buried in his pockets and giving her that look he gets when he’s encountered something very irritating. He’ll say something cold. Or maybe he’ll say something gentle, let her down easy. Or maybe he won’t say anything at all, just ignore her until she finally leaves him be.

“You don’t know what he’ll say,” Clara says aloud. “You don’t know anything.”

The doubt still forms in her chest, heavy and painful. If this is it, if he no longer wishes to see her, never again will she look from her bedroom window and spot the TARDIS waiting for her. Never again will the Doctor take her from planet to planet, from one misadventure to the next. Never again will anyone, from her past, her present, or her future, be able to incite such excitement and awe in her the way the Doctor does. Never again will she have her friend.

If this is it, she can’t let it end like this. Not in silence, not with truths unsaid.

With a quiet sigh, Clara looks over her shoulder, just to make sure she’s alone before she snaps her fingers. The door swings open and she walks into the TARDIS.

\--

Clara discovers the Doctor seated at a table in the kitchen, munching on an apple and fiddling with the antenna of an antique radio.

“The thing about these contraptions,” he starts without preamble, “is that you have to place them just in the right position. Otherwise, you’ll have nothing but static.”

She still has the kitchen door open, her arm outstretched and her palm flat against the metal. Of all the things to say, she did not suspect it would be that. Clara takes a step forward. “Doctor,” she starts but stops when a thick shard of glass crunches beneath the sole of her boot.

It’s then Clara sweeps her gaze over the entire kitchen. Plates and bowls caked in dry food cover every counter surface while used utensils lay strewn on the floor. The microwave, or something Clara thinks looks like a microwave, is beeping incessantly. Clara opens it and moves out of the way just as a brown, thick paste comes gushing out. She focuses her attention back on the Doctor and catches sight of a trail of glass that leads to a splatter of fish fingers and custard on the far wall.

The radio blares to life and Clara jumps at the sudden noise. “Ah!” the Doctor exclaims. “There we are.” She can’t make out the words but the Doctor seems to. He hums along for a bit before he takes another bite from his apple.

Clara observes him as she thinks of all the times she, alone in her flat, held her mobile in her hands, her fingers hovering over the keypad, wanting to press the numbers she knew by heart, and letting trepidation and reticence win her over.

“Doctor,” Clara starts again. “How long have you been here?”

He waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “No more than ten minutes, I think. I knew it was only a matter of time before you noticed a very blue box near your flat.”

She drops into the seat next to him, her knees bumping into his thigh as she turns to face him. “I meant, how long have you been on the TARDIS? By yourself?”

The Doctor gestures behind him, retrieving a book from his lap and flipping it open. “I’ve been food sampling,” he says instead. “Found out there’s a lot of things I don’t like but I have a very big weakness for sweets. Probably rot out my teeth by my next regeneration.”

He won’t look at her, keeps his gaze on his novel, and gives her an out. Instead, Clara reaches for a nub on the radio and switches it off.

“You’ve been gone for three months, Doctor,” Clara says faintly. “I thought you’d forgotten me.” She means for her words to be light-hearted but her voice cracks a bit at the end.

She feels the Doctor’s eyes on her then and it takes a bit of effort to meet his gaze. He is looking at her differently, with a depth in his stare that makes Clara genuinely uncomfortable. His scrutiny is not as objective as it had been when they came face to face for the very first time. There’s a thoughtful quality to it, quietly discerning, but it doesn’t lessen the sharpness of his eyes or their intensity.

“I could never forget you, Clara,” the Doctor replies eventually. “You must know this by now.”

“When you regenerated, I wasn’t so sure. You were so confused. You weren’t yourself.” She hesitates for a moment before she asks, in a rush, “What’s it like? When you regenerate? I thought…I don’t know. I thought you would be more…refreshed.” The Doctor looks away from her but she does manage to glimpse his exasperated expression before he stares at her again.

“You mean younger,” he clarifies.

It’s Clara’s turn to avert her gaze. “Not necessarily,” she answers, and then slowly adds, “maybe.”

“I can’t control my regeneration. I can only take the face I’m given.”

“I know.”

“Then if you know, why are you asking? Haven’t you seen me regenerate before—?”

“I haven’t. I’ve never actually witnessed one for myself. I’ve always known about your regenerations from my echoes. But those are, at best, vague memories, memories that aren’t really mine. You know, me but not really _me_ ,” Clara stresses the last word as she glances down at her boots.

“We’re alike, you and I,” the Doctor says quietly.

“How do you mean?” When his long, slim fingers circle her wrist, Clara’s head whips up, surprised by the unexpected contact.

“Think of how you are, in this very moment,” he starts, “knowing that even though you are you, you are also one part of a whole.” The Doctor’s eyes drop to her wrist. “There’s one thing I’ve always envied about human beings.”

Clara follows his gaze. “What would that be?”

“Every living cell in their bodies regenerates every seven years,” he says. She watches as the fingers of his other hand trace a patch of skin just below her wrist before skating along the inside of her arm. “On some level, they’re new, they’re restored. Just like Time Lords.” He repeats the motion. “But the difference is the change in humans isn’t visible. Humans remain the same, even as they don’t.” On the third stroke, the flesh all along Clara's arm prickles under his touch. The Doctor releases her wrist and she places her arm in her lap when he looks elsewhere.

“I used to like regenerating. I looked forward to being different but for superficial reasons. If I didn’t like my hair or my personality, all I had to do was be patient and I would have a new everything eventually. But then one day I just didn’t.

“I didn’t want to lose who I was in that moment, lose my self-awareness, lose almost everything and have to start again. When I regenerate, Clara, it feels like dying. Everything I am dies. Some new man goes sauntering away. And I'm dead. I’ll never be that person again. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember each experience, each emotion, each—” The Doctor cuts himself short as he gets to his feet.

“Each what?” Clara asks.

He turns to her. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Clara hesitates for a second before she says, “I see you, Doctor. You are my friend. I can’t even imagine how I got on without you, and I’m not interested in a life without you in it.”

He smiles just slightly but she can see that whatever the Doctor wants to hear, her words are not it. Even if she has anything worth saying, the sombre expression he wears now chases the words from her thoughts. But she still wants to try.

Before she can think too much about it, Clara stands, yanks the Doctor back by his elbow, and embraces him. He stiffens and attempts to shy away but she grips him tighter, keeping her gaze trained on their shoes.

“This right here,” Clara says, and rests a hand between their hearts, “is what I care about. If this never changes, then nothing else matters to me.” Her pulse races as she murmurs her next words. “I know this may sound silly but...when I’m with you…that is, when I travel with you, I…I see…” But she doesn’t finish her thought before she’s onto another. “Us travelling together, it doesn’t need to change. It never has to, so long as we both want it.”

The Doctor is silent for a long stretch of time. He feels his throat constrict, trapped with all the things he wants to tell to Clara. But he can’t find the words, at least not yet. Instead, the he reluctantly pats her shoulder and gently confesses, “I don’t think I like hugs.”

Clara nudges the Doctor’s shoulder with her forehead but doesn’t let go. “Shut up. You’ll ruin the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there will be references to some of the previous Doctors throughout the story, some more obvious than others. Anyway, please let me know what you think so far. I love feedback.


	3. III

iii.

She’s already slept with him. It’s the first thing that comes to the Doctor’s mind when he observes the pair of them standing at her front door. He can’t make out the man’s expression, he’s covered in shadow. But a sliver of light from the half-moon streams across Clara’s face as she gazes up at the stranger. There is a certain look in her eyes. The Doctor knows that expression, he’s seen it before.

He doesn’t make a habit of knowing such intimate details about others. But with Clara and this man, the revelation comes with a brutal clarity he can’t ignore. It’s the little things that give them away: his lingering touches on the small of Clara’s back, her gaze following the solid flex and bunch of his biceps, no doubt remembering what they feel like around her slender waist or beneath her palms. Even from his place here, sitting in Clara’s home where he’s come unannounced countless times, their familiarity with each other makes the Doctor feel intrusive.

He should leave. He doesn’t belong here right now. But the Doctor only takes a seat at Clara’s vanity, briefly touches his arm, and waits until her bedroom door opens and she walks in. As Clara flips on the light, she startles at the sight of him, her frightened expression quickly mellowing into a look of exasperation. He watches her close the door as slowly and as silently as possible.

“Honestly, Doctor,” she sighs, resting a hand against her chest.

The Doctor stares at Clara’s reflection from her three-way mirror. She’s wearing a sleeveless cream-coloured dress, nude stockings, and black heels. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and her gold drop earrings gleam in the light. He tries not to notice that her lipstick—red, almost always red—is smeared.

“Did I scare you, Clara?” the Doctor asks. “You’re always so jumpy around me these days. And why do you have three mirrors? Why don’t you just turn your face to the side?”

“I think, under the circumstances,” Clara starts, walking to the wardrobe and putting away her shoes, “any normal person would be scared if she came home to find a strange man in her room who is _not supposed to be there_.” She yanks off her coat. “Sitting in the dark, I might add.”

“I’m in your bedroom just in case you decide to bring him in here,” he answers truthfully. At Clara’s incredulous look, the Doctor raises his hands in surrender. “My intentions are pure. I want to warn him.”

Her face relaxes. But there is an edge there, just in the way she narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. “That’s considerate of you, I suppose, but I think I can pick a decent bloke for myself.”

The Doctor gets to his feet to face her. “And therein lies my concern. You misunderstand. I want to warn him about you, Clara, needy egomaniac that you are.”

She’s ready to retort, and the Doctor can tell by Clara’s displeased expression it’s going to be something biting, maybe even a little cruel, but always so very clever, when the bedroom door swings open and in walks the man. Clara presses her lips together but says nothing. The man stares at the Doctor and the Doctor stares right back.

“Clara, what’s going on?” the man asks. “I heard voices.”

“Who said you could come in here?” the Doctor demands.

Clara hisses under her breath at him and the man smiles an easy smile as his face lights with understanding, watching their exchange. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You must be Clara’s father.” He holds out his hand. “My name is Danny Pink.”

The Doctor smirks, turning his attention to Clara. “Would you look at that? Mr. Danny Pink here thinks I’m your father, Clara.”

“Doctor,” she murmurs in warning, already feeling her mood plummeting to foul, irritable levels.

Danny gives him a scrutinizing look as he says, “My mistake. Grandfather, then?”

“You must be the mystery man in Clara’s life.” The Doctor finally takes Danny’s hand and gives him a firm handshake.

“I wouldn’t say I’m the mystery man. I think we’ve been pretty open about our relationship. Well, everywhere except school, of course.”

“I see. Is that how you and Clara met?”

“Yes. I’m the maths teacher at Coal Hill. When I first got hired, a mutual colleague introduced us.”

“You’re a maths teacher? Are you sure? Because here I was thinking you had to be the P.E. teacher.”

Danny’s brows draw together in slight bewilderment. “No, definitely the maths teacher,” he says slowly.

The Doctor hums under his breath, nods. “And how long have you two been seeing each other? I only ask because Clara always neglects to tell me what’s happening in her life.” He stares at her as he says it. “She thinks I wouldn’t approve.”

“Two weeks from now will make it a year.”

The Doctor’s eyes widen as he feigns pleasant surprise. “A whole year,” he repeats. “That means…you started seeing Mr. Danny Pink around the time I wanted to take you to Barcelona, Clara.” At Danny’s confused expression, he whispers to him, almost conspiratorially, “The planet, not the city, mind you. There are very interesting creatures on Barcelona.”

“Doctor,” Clara says again, growing flustered. “Stop it.”

“Clara, why do you keep calling your grandfather—?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the Doctor interrupts. “Well, maybe for you it isn’t. Not to worry, I’ll phrase it for you plainly: I am not her grandfather or her father or any elderly male relative you might be thinking of.”

Clara finally comes to stand between them, placing her hands on Danny’s shoulders. “Do you mind giving us a moment?” she asks, keeping her voice light. “Just so I can speak with him for a bit?”

“What is going on?”

“I promise I’ll explain—”

“Or I could just erase his memory,” the Doctor suggests. “For someone with his mental capacity, it won’t take long.”

“Erase my memory?” Danny exclaims.

“He’s joking,” Clara says, forcing a laugh. “Aren’t you, Doctor?”

“Of course I’m not joking. I just told the man about Barcelona.”

“Look, just explain it to me right now. Who is this man and why was he here in your bedroom while you were away? Did you give him a spare key?”

“Oh no, I don’t need one of those. Isn’t that right, Clara?” the Doctor inquires, ignoring the scowl she throws over her shoulder at him.

Danny brings Clara behind him, despite her quiet reassurances. “Clara, what is this? Does he do this often, just sneak into your flat uninvited? Have you filed a report with the police?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. This is just a big misunderstanding. The Doctor…he’s…er…”

“Are you a soldier, Mr. Danny Pink?” the Doctor asks, eyeing him as Danny goes very still. When he does not respond, the Doctor continues, his voice growing cold as his smile fades. “You see, I couldn’t help but notice you have this certain way about you. The way you hold yourself,” the Doctor says this as he straightens his back and stiffens his shoulders, imitating Danny’s stance. “Your posture, your mannerisms, and all these questions you ask as if you have the right to know who I am and why I am here.” He frowns deeply. “Not to mention your need for control. Drives you mad when you don’t have it, doesn’t it?”

“What about you?” Danny snaps. “I don’t know who you are but it doesn’t take a genius to spot the upper crust attitude you’ve been touting ever since I walked in here. Do your lot salute, sir, or is that beneath you as well?”

The Doctor’s face hardens. “Don’t call me that,” he says, his voice low and tight.

“Of course not, sir.” Danny nods and gives a quick salute. “Absolutely, sir.”

The Doctor angles his head to the side, catching Clara’s gaze. “Tell Dave to leave.”

Clara squeezes Danny’s shoulder to get his attention. “I’m okay. Please just give me five minutes and I’ll explain, all right? Just a few minutes, that’s all I’m asking.” But Danny won’t take his eyes off the Doctor. He keeps his arm around Clara but doesn’t move. “Please,” Clara insists gently. “I can take care of myself.”

The Doctor jerks his head toward the bedroom door, glowering. “Go on, then. Leave us alone.”

When Clara slips out of Danny’s hold, he finally relents, giving her a significant look. “Five minutes,” he says before he shuts the door behind him.

The Doctor huffs, “Finally.” He brandishes his sonic screwdriver and waves it toward the door. The lock clicks in place.

Clara waits until Danny’s footsteps move closer toward the sitting room before she whirls on the Doctor. She tries to keep her anger in check with even breaths but fails miserably. She doesn’t know whether she wants to strangle him or slap him or both.

“What the hell?” she seethes. “I swear, you are the most infuriating person I have ever met. How dare you. _How dare you!_ ”

The Doctor returns to the seat at the vanity. “I remember, a year ago,” he starts slowly, as if he’s talking to himself, “I asked you to come to Barcelona with me. You said no, and you never say no. Ever. I didn’t think much of it at the time. You were still hesitant around me, still distant and I didn’t want to…” The Doctor trails off with a sigh. “A whole year, Clara, and not a word. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say anything?” Clara snaps, bristling. “Oh pardon me, Time Lord, I didn’t realize I was obligated to tell you who I decide to see. And I didn’t tell you for good reason. I knew you would do something like this. I knew it!”

“That’s not what I mean,” the Doctor replies. “You never needed to tell me about him, since you clearly didn’t want to. You’re a grown woman. You can do whatever you want. What I’m asking is why it never crossed your mind to explain me to him?”

“So I should have just gone up to Danny and said, ‘Oh by the way, I travel through time and space in an old police box with an alien from Gallifrey who fancies being called the Doctor?’”

“Yes,” the Doctor nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“He wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Oh come off it, Clara! He would’ve believed you, just like you believed me, just like everyone else does once they see that the TARDIS is bigger on the inside. You’ve had a whole year to get your story together.”

The Doctor strides toward the door and Clara grabs his elbow. “Where are you going?”

He shakes her off, straightening his sleeve. “I’m bored. There’s a star that’s just about to be born and I want to go and see it. I was going to take you but you’re obviously preoccupied with P.E.”

“His name is Danny,” Clara says tartly. She stands in front of the door, blocking the Doctor’s path. “And you’re not going anywhere. You don’t come into my flat, act like a complete arse to my boyfriend, and think that you’re just going to leave. You owe him an apology!”

“I don’t owe him anything. Besides, you’re the one who made a boyfriend error.”

“A boyfriend error?” She throws her hands up in the air. “What does that even mean?”

“You’re dating a soldier, Clara.”

“He’s a maths teacher! Not a soldier, not anymore.”

“He is a soldier. He will always be a soldier. It never goes away.”

“And you seem to know quite a lot about that bit, don’t you, sir?” Clara yells.

Though she doesn’t regret it, Clara knows she’s said too much. She holds her breath, leans against the door, and waits. They watch each other for a long, charged moment before the Doctor covers the space between them in slow, measured steps.

“Why would you choose him?” he asks. "Why would you choose a soldier?" 

“For the last time, Danny is not a solider.”

The Doctor stops, just hovering near her personal space. “What were you thinking?”

“What I was thinking is none of your concern.”

“A dog or a plant would have been a better step up from a soldier, Clara! Why?”

“Because I love him!”

Clara exhales loudly when the Doctor quickly turns his back on her. “Why would you say that?” he asks and her eyes widen in surprise. She must be hearing things because that _cannot_ possibly be hurt in his voice. It can’t. “Why would you say that?” he repeats.

She’s still cross with him, probably will be for the next several days, but the blazing rage from earlier has suddenly dwindled and left her with something brittle and sore in its wake. “Because it’s true,” Clara answers faintly. She reaches for him. “Doctor—”

“Why won’t you explain me to him?” he says, sounding genuinely perplexed. She drops her hand to her side just as he turns around to stare at her. Any trace of what she thought might have been in his expression is long gone. “I don’t understand.”

“I will. I promise. I’ll tell him everything,” Clara replies. “He’s a good man, Doctor, really good and good for me. If you would just—”

There’s a sharp rapping at the bedroom door. With another wave of the screwdriver, Clara opens it and doesn’t stop the Doctor this time when he moves past her and Danny and starts down the corridor. He’s barely closed the front door before he hears them arguing.

He should leave. He doesn’t belong here right now. But all the blood in his body sinks and settles in his legs, making them heavy and useless, making it impossible for him to move a single inch. He strains to listen to them through the door.

“So, there’s an alien and every now and then, when I’m not looking, you elope with him.”

“Danny, don’t say it like that! You make it sound so…” Clara trails off with a sigh, says, “I don’t elope.”

“Do you love him?”

“What? No!”

“Clara, don’t lie to me.”

“Not in that way.”

“What other way is there?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know what you mean! I only know what you tell me, which apparently isn’t always the truth.” A long pause follows before Danny murmurs, “Why do you do it? Why do you go with him?”

Clara says something but the Doctor pushes his weight off the door, stepping far enough away that her words are unintelligible once her voice reaches his ears. He stands at her front door for a just a moment longer before he forces himself to move. He walks briskly back to the TARDIS and doesn’t dare look back.


	4. IV

iv.

Carefully, Clara makes her way to her vanity mirror, taking in her reflection with a critical eye. The dress she wears is beautiful, the flowing hem falling just above her ankles and clinging to her waist in a way that’s just not coincidental. Her gown is black in colour, sheer in the right angle of light, so smooth and so delicate under her palms—like water slipping through her fingers—that she knows the material is not from Earth.

She’s just putting on the finishing touches of her make-up when the Doctor barges into her bedroom unannounced. Clara is more exasperated than anything else. Even still, it doesn’t keep a full crimson tide from crashing over her cheeks and staining everything in its path a bright, rosy red.

“Honestly, Doctor, what’s the matter with you? I could have been dressing,” Clara scolds quietly, her flush deepening because she can’t imagine saying “naked” in front of him. “One of these days, you’re going to open that door and you won’t like what you see.”

The Doctor doesn’t respond and Clara watches him in the mirror as he takes a seat at the edge of her bed and studies her. He eventually smiles. “You look lovely,” he says.

She returns his smile with a toothy grin. “Careful, Doctor. I haven’t agreed to be part of whatever it is you’re planning for tonight. You should save your compliments for when you actually need them.”

“And yet you’re wearing the dress,” he points out. “And mascara,” he adds. But there is a waver in his voice, almost a question, and Clara rolls her eyes and makes sure he sees. It seems the Doctor still can’t really tell when she’s wearing make-up or not.

“Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t give up the chance to try on such lovely clothing, certainly not me.” Clara runs her hands over the material again, notes how the Doctor’s gaze follows her fingers skimming along her exposed collarbones. “Where did you say you got this from again?”

“I didn’t, and it’s on loan. Someone owed me a great favour.”

“It fits very well for a dress that’s just on loan, Doctor.”

He pretends not to hear her comment as he idly plays with a music box on her nightstand. His eyes sweep over her bedroom and it’s then he finally notices Clara’s bare wardrobe, the labelled cardboard boxes stacked in each far corner, and her colourful duvet and pillows replaced with plain white sheets.

“I’m moving,” Clara explains as she slowly rises. She reaches into one of the boxes, retrieves black heels, and slides them onto her feet.

“And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“Of course I was going to tell you. It’s not my fault someone disappears for months when he claims he’ll be back in a week’s time. I have to be out by the end of the month, right when the last rent is due.”

“Where are you moving to?”

“A flat closer to Coal Hill,” Clara answers casually. She turns away from him as she fishes in another box for her clutch handbag. “With Danny,” she adds hastily.

“You and P.E. are moving quite fast.”

“Hardly,” Clara replies, giving him that pointed look she always does when the Doctor chooses not to use Danny’s given name. “We’ve been seeing each other for almost two years now. It was the next big step, I suppose.” She snorts. “Plus, you know, less rent to pay is another perk.”

The Doctor does not respond. He’s done it again, lost track of Clara’s timeline. But it’s almost a lost cause trying to measure the intervals. The times between his visits with her are infinite and instantaneous all at once. Objectively, he knows Clara has and always will have a life that stretches beyond the confines of the TARDIS, knows there will come a day she will no longer be by his side. But he forgets all about those things when he steps into Clara’s tiny flat and sees her sipping tea in the kitchen or lounging in the sitting room or reading on her bed. In those moments, the world seems big enough to hold just the two of them, the world spinning round and time moving forward as they stand still.

“I’ll miss your flat,” the Doctor says. “Good memories here.”

Clara plops down beside him, quickly twisting her hair into a tight, elaborate bun. “We will have good memories at the new place. That flat is much bigger, so more room for the TARDIS.”

“We? So I’m invited? Mr. Danny Pink doesn’t mind me stealing you away?”

“It’s not stealing if he knows about it.”

“Even still, he’s always struck me as very territorial.”

“Territorial? Are you sure you’re not confusing him for someone else?”

“I don’t know who you could possibly mean,” the Doctor says seriously.

“Besides, I know you won’t stay away for long. You like Danny’s cooking too much for that.”

The Doctor’s first instinct is to deny everything but Clara is giving him such a knowing look. He relents. “His apple tarts aren’t the worst thing I’ve ever had.”

Clara beams, nudging her shoulder with his. “I’ll make sure to tell him.”

“Don’t you dare,” he replies, grimacing. “He’ll start to think I like him.”

“I’m sure the universe wouldn’t implode if you did.”

“No, it certainly would. Implode and explode and everything in between. I’m a time traveller so I know what I’m talking about.” The Doctor gets to his feet and offers her his arm. “Ready?”

Clara checks her reflection in the mirror for the nth time. “You know, I didn’t actually agree to go.”

“So you put on the dress, the make-up, and the heels for no reason at all?”

“There’s a reason: I like looking good.”

The Doctor shrugs, starts toward the TARDIS, and casually throws over his shoulder, “Did I mention we’re going to a wedding reception?”

“A wedding reception?” she frowns. “That seems so tame for us.”

The Doctor faces her. “You haven’t even let me get to the best part.” He opens the doors to the TARDIS.

“And the best part is?” Clara prompts when he doesn’t finish.

“You’ll just have wait and see,” the Doctor replies, holding out his hand and taking a step inside of the TARDIS. At Clara’s suspicious look, he says, “Come on. Don’t say no. Don’t let this be another Barcelona.”

Clara sighs, standing. “Is it too much to hope you’ll ever let that go?”

“Much too much,” the Doctor smiles warmly. “Now, Clara Oswald, get in this TARDIS. This night will be many things but it won’t be dull. I promise you that.”

It doesn’t take much to convince Clara. It never does. She slips her hand into his. “Of course it won’t. How can I ever doubt you?”

“I ask myself that very question every day.”

\--

The wedding reception is on Aneth, a planet with oceans a shade of emerald so bright Clara feels as if she’s tripped headfirst into a vast meadow when she looks at them.

As they stroll through a grassy field toward a white tent, the Doctor excitedly rattles off the names of nearby stars and moons as he points to the sky. Before long, he’s whispering to her about the other guests, the Oods dressed in suits, air-breathing sea creatures from light years away, and meta-humans fitted with the latest cyber technology. Clara only half-listens but makes sure she smiles for him. She likes it when the Doctor is like this, eager and animated, comfortable even. They have worked so hard to reach this point, the ease they share almost implicitly, and she wants it to remain that way forever. Tonight, he is more relaxed than he’s ever been when it’s just the two of them.

As they reach the tent, Clara is amazed by the size of it. The space is enormous—several hundreds of feet high, long, and wide. Above them, floating orbs of light permeate high in the air, casting everything in a dim, warm glow.

“Just how many people are going to be attending this reception?”

“When it comes to the Aneths, the more guests they have, the better. But this wedding is small for them. I think it’s about five-thousand.”

“Oh, just five-thousand,” Clara says sarcastically. “Why not eight-thousand?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” the Doctor replies. “Eight-thousand is a nice, round number.”

She tightens her hold on his arm. “You better not leave me behind. I’ll never find you again.”

“I would never do such a thing. But on second thought,” the Doctor guides her to a nearby table adorned with white flowers, “stay right here. I’ll be back.” Before she can object, he is back at her side again. “Just to let you know, do not eat anything here. You’ll regret it.”

“What? Doctor, you told me not to eat anything before we came here. I’m famished.” At her table, she eyes a plate of berries being passed around to each guest. “What if—?” But Clara turns to see the Doctor has already disappeared and she swears under her breath.

As Clara waits for him to return, she observes the activity around her: guests searching for open seats and servers carefully balancing trays on their palms. There are barks of laughter, cheers, and the steady hum of too many conversations all at once.

There’s a server beside her, maybe an Aneth, offering her a glass flute with a pink, bubbly liquid. “Drink, Miss Oswald?” she asks, smiling.

“You know my name?”

“Of course. It’s required that all support staff know the names and titles of each guest.”

“But there’s five thousand people here.”

“There are five-thousand six-hundred and thirty-one guests, as a matter of fact,” the server replies, looking pleased. She places the glass carefully on the table before Clara.

The Doctor’s warning rings clear in her head. But the want is still there, at the edge of all reason, tempting her. Her stomach gives an audible grumble in agreement. As if on cue, the server presents Clara with a small plate of fruit and desserts.

“Well, he did say not to eat anything. He didn’t say anything about drinking,” Clara reasons. She gathers the flute in her hand and takes a tentative sip, eyes widening at the taste. “This is fantastic,” Clara beams, finishing it off in three gulps.

The server presses another glass into her hands, winking. “I won’t tell the Doctor if you don’t, Miss Oswald. Please do enjoy the rest of your evening.” She moves on to the next table, greeting a pair of guests, Movellans, Clara thinks, by name in obvious delight.

Clara nurses the second drink as she gets to her feet. As she does so, a pleasant rush of warmth courses through her. Without thinking, she swallows the rest. A fistful of berries are in her hand and in her mouth before she knows it.

“These are bloody amazing,” she gushes to herself. “I could eat a whole plate.”

Clara thinks she does, she’s not entirely sure. But before she can dwell on it for too long, she spots the Doctor lingering near the outskirt of a raucous crowd. He’s having a lively conversation with three Haths in a language that consists of nothing but low-pitched hisses and gurgles.

Clara takes a moment to watch him, and in the dim light of the reception hall, she fondly remembers how the Doctor looked when he stepped into her flat earlier that evening. Dressed in a well-tailored black suit, his eyes soft from the glow of her lamp and fussing over his tie as he asked, “Clara, be honest. How do I look?”

“You look very nice,” she answers, “dapper, even.” She’s now standing next to the Doctor and she doesn’t know how she got here, doesn’t remember how her feet carried her to him from across the vast length of the hall.

His expression is surprised, then perplexed as he faces her. “Thank you,” he replies. “Clara—”

Suddenly music fills the air, carrying to the highest peaks of the tent. Instruments blare loud, almost swallowing the sounds of conversation. It’s a popular Aneth song but the Doctor cannot recall the name of it. Clara gasps, her face brightening with glee. Behind her, the Doctor gives her another questioning look.

“I love this song!” she exclaims, clapping her hands repeatedly.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with Aneth music,” the Doctor says.

Clara grins mischievously. “I’m not.” She snatches his hand up as she looks at him over her shoulder. “Let’s dance.”

She doesn’t listen to his protests as she pulls him toward the dance floor. The large area is already cramped with guests, and it only grows more constricting the further they make their way to the middle. Someone steps on the Doctor’s foot and he winces. A jab in the ribs from an elbow and a spilt drink down his front is the last straw. He’s ready to stop, to do just about anything so he doesn’t have to be here. But Clara turns and gazes at him so intently that he holds in all his complaints.

She takes a moment to observe another group of people rocking to the rhythm before she mimics them, flailing about on the dance floor, even in such a tight space. The Doctor watches as Clara closes her eyes and sways her hips in time with the music, fluid and confident. The chorus begins and Clara starts to repeat the words, smiling to herself. The Doctor thinks he’s dancing too, maybe not _with_ Clara, awkwardly but dancing still. He attempts to copy her movements but she is jerking so rapidly to the music he can barely keep up.

“Isn’t this fun?” she shouts over the noise.

“It’s something,” the Doctor mutters to himself, receiving a kick in his shin from a passing heeled foot.

“Don’t think about it, Doctor,” Clara calls. “Just move how you feel.” He falters when she does a slow switch with her waist. Her dress catches in the light, revealing pretty hipbones beneath the sheer material. His mouth dries up.

The Doctor feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to a see young meta-human beside him, glancing at Clara as she does a whirl. “Do you mind if I dance with your daughter?” he asks.

The music reaches a high note before it gradually decrescendos to a low, sensual tune. From the corner of his eye, the Doctor sees Clara come daringly close to him. She wraps an arm around his middle and drags him flush against her frame, the respectable distance he kept long gone. A thrill of excitement shoots through him when she smirks at the meta-human and turns her back on him.

The Doctor looks on as some guests step off the dance floor while couples draw near. Hands intertwine, arms clasp shoulders, and fingers press against soft curves. He realises then he and Clara are standing in place. The Doctor meets her eyes as she takes his hand in hers. Clara’s skin gleams with perspiration. He can smell her perfume, sweet and musky.

“I’d like to keep dancing,” she says, “if that’s all right with you.” The Doctor nods and Clara smiles. “Take the lead?”

“Yes, boss,” he replies, bringing his hand around her waist as she rests hers against his arm. Their fingers link together.

It takes a moment or two for the Doctor to relax. Though when he does, he is in his element. They move effortlessly together and Clara laughs when he spins her, beams when he dips her. But then his hand tightens on her middle, and the warmth of his fingers has her nerve endings tingling.

Clara thinks it’s the alcohol. It must be because her heart is beating in a strange and off beat rhythm, and her palms are wet with sweat and trembling at odd moments. A nervousness she’s never experienced starts in her belly and surges throughout her system. Every slight movement of the Doctor’s hands makes her tremble and his body pressing against hers sends a dizzying spell that tickles its way up and down and down and up—

The Doctor’s fingers skimming the curve of her jaw startle her, and heat spreads through her chest when he lifts her chin and gives her a cryptic look. “Clara,” he murmurs, an edge in his voice, “did you eat something?”

Clara slowly runs her thumb up and down the small buttons of his dress shirt. “No,” she lies and then nods, “yes. Was it that obvious?”

The Doctor grasps her hand and places it down at her side. He gestures at her shaking body. “You ate the food? When I specifically told you not to eat it?”

Clara clutches at the front of his suit jacket and gives him an impish smile. “Why don’t you have some? The berries taste so _wonderful_.” Her smile fades as her brows draw together in confusion. “Or maybe it was the champagne. Was that even champagne?”

The Doctor instead takes Clara by the elbow and helps guide her off the dance floor and toward the TARDIS. She only objects for a moment before she falls in line with him. But whatever Clara has consumed is fast-acting. It isn’t long before she becomes unsteady on her feet. Clara wobbles before she is stumbling and falling, even with his support.

“What’s happening to me?” she asks from her place on the ground, giggling. She swings her legs a bit. “I can’t feel my knees!”

The Doctor crouches beside her, studies the sweat on her forehead, her dilated pupils, and the flush on her cheeks that makes her skin glow. “It’s nothing life-threatening,” he replies. “For whatever reason, I’ve never been able to work out why any consumption of food native to Aneth by humans should be avoided. But it’ll work its way out of your system in a few hours.”

Clara hums under her breath as she inches toward the Doctor and threads her fingers through his hair. She looks into his eyes and a vague, distant corner of his mind notes how close their faces are. “What are the side effects? Will I notice anything?” Clara asks. She lightly traces the arch of his eyebrows, again and again. “You, Doctor, have the softest eyebrows I’ve ever touched.”

“I didn’t know you made a habit of finding the softest eyebrows to touch,” he replies, staying motionless.

“Just yours, promise,” Clara says. “What’s your secret?”

“Lots and lots of conditioner,” the Doctor answers jokingly, a frown passing over his features. “Aneth food and humans should never mix, something to do with your limited physiology. One moment you’re lucid and the next moment you’re not.”

A breeze picks up and a wayward curl comes loose from Clara’s intricate bun. The Doctor is reaching out to tuck it behind her ear before he realises, his eyes narrowing when she bodily trembles at the touch. Clara cups his face and he holds his breath.

“I see colours in the sky, Doctor,” Clara whispers, awed, her eyes wide. “I swear the breeze is purple.”

“Not mention the hallucinations,” he adds, suddenly aware of the dull pounding of his hearts as Clara moves her fingers away. But she is hardly paying attention to him now, her gaze vacant as she runs one hand through trimmed blades of grass and the other against her dress, deliberate and slow.

The first twinge of worry tugs at his chest. The Doctor mentally debates whether he should bring the TARDIS to her but quickly rejects the idea. Knowing Clara, she would probably wander off and he doesn’t want to lose sight of her, not when she’s in such a state. Decision made, he carefully gathers her up in his arms and starts the far trek back to the TARDIS.

“Clara, I need you to stay awake,” he instructs calmly. “The moment you feel drowsy, please tell me.”

Clara leans heavily against him. “You know,” she whispers, her breath hot against his ear. “I need to tell you something.”

The Doctor swallows, and the movement in his throat quickly draws Clara’s eyes, now sharp and focused, to his neck. “Go on, I’m listening.”

He can hear the smile in her voice, feel her thumb stroking the side of his neck. “Danny is making me wait until the wedding night.” Her nails graze his skin. “It’s driving me absolutely mad.”

The Doctor tightens his hold on Clara, tries to keep his voice light. “You’re getting married?”

That dark, smouldering look in Clara’s eyes vanish, replaced with a bewildered, almost delighted expression. “Am I? To who?”

“Mr. Danny Pink.”

She nods slowly in understanding. “I had no clue. I didn’t want to marry until I was thirty. But I trust your judgment, Doctor. Whoever he is, I hope he’s fit.” Clara fusses with the collar of his button-down and after a moment of silence, she asks, “What are you thinking about?”

He says the first thing that comes to mind. “Is this going to be a thing between us?”

“A thing?”

The Doctor watches her face. Her pupils are still dilated but she appears coherent enough, if only for the time being. “The thing when people assume I’m your grandfather?”

The flush on Clara’s cheeks darkens and slowly creeps down the length of her neck. She grins. “Or my space dad?” she quips. When he doesn’t respond, Clara looks up at him and scrutinises him for a long moment. The Doctor is certain he schools his features into something resembling disinterest. But there must be something there because Clara’s grin softens into a slight smile.

“I suppose so,” she says quietly. Her voice takes on a teasing note. “I mean, it wasn’t long ago people assumed you were my _boyfriend_ and we never corrected them then. I mean, sometimes we even encouraged it, just so people would stop asking us questions. Remember that one Christmas when we—”

“I was _not_ your boyfriend,” the Doctor snaps, his tone so cutting that it easily wipes the grin from Clara’s face. He regrets his words immediately but he doesn’t dare look at Clara as she stares at him so openly. Instead, the Doctor keeps his attention straight ahead. He can just see the TARDIS a few yards away, perched atop a low hill and hidden behind a towering tree. He quickens his steps.

“No, you were not,” Clara agrees finally, almost in a whisper. She gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Things were different then,” he says softly.

“Different how?” When the Doctor does not answer, Clara continues. “You know it doesn’t matter what other people think or say. At least it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t see those things when I look at you and when you look at me.”

The Doctor hesitates before he asks, “What do you see then?”

Clara points at something behind him, her eyes widening in alarm. “River Song!” she exclaims.

It’s out of instinct the Doctor whirls around, expecting to see his wild-haired, smirking wife ready to tease him about his gray eyebrows. But he comes face to face with nothing except the large white tent where the wedding reception is still going strong. He frowns deeply, looks down at Clara, and finds her fast asleep against his chest.

The Doctor gently shakes her. “Clara, wake up.” She pays him no mind, only sighs tiredly. He starts jogging toward the TARDIS. “The next time I see you,” he gasps between breaths, “I expect to have plenty of apple tarts from you and P.E.”

\--

Slowly, the Doctor eases Clara onto the bed in an empty room. She shifts in her sleep, toward the edge of the mattress. The Doctor rests his hand on her forehead, his concern returning when he realises Clara is feverish. She moves again, turning fully onto her side and knocking the contents of her purse to the floor with her feet.

The Doctor goes to gather up her things but stops when he notices a picture. For an instant, his mind recalls a time he stormed into the library and found Clara huddled in a corner, pretending to browse the shelves when he was sure she had been staring at the same scrap of paper that lays before him now.

Before he can change his mind, the Doctor picks up the photograph and realises it’s a picture of them. He studies his features carefully, the pointed chin, the brown bang sweeping across his forehead, his youthful face. He’s staring at the camera and from the strange angle of his arm, he can guess he’s the one who pressed the shutter. Clara’s head is perched on his shoulder, her attention focused on him, smiling and gazing at him with an expression he hasn’t seen on her face for a very long time.

“Doctor,” Clara calls groggily from the bed.

The Doctor slips the picture into his pocket as he turns to face her, smothering the guilt that swells in his chest. “How are you feeling?”

Even in the dim lighting of the bedroom, he can see how pale her skin is. Clara buries her head into the pillow and groans before staring up at him. “I should have listened to you. I feel like I’m burning up.” She smiles slightly. “Be honest. Did I do or say anything particularly embarrassing?”

“Absolutely. Plenty I can use for blackmail,” the Doctor jokes and Clara laughs, gentle and raspy. “You just need a few hours to rest and when you wake, we’ll be back at your flat,” he replies, edging close to her. “You’re probably over the worst of it but I don’t know for sure.” She nods and the soft expression on her face gives way to something else. The Doctor smiles uncertainly. “What’s the matter?”

Clara tries to shake her head, gives up, and gestures at herself. “Aside from this, I’m fine.”

“Then why are you doing that?” the Doctor asks. “How in the world do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Smile and look sad at the same time.” His laugh is forced. “It’s like you’re malfunctioning. I don’t understand it.”

Clara’s smile slowly fades as she averts her gaze. “Sorry,” she mutters.

The Doctor sits on the bed next to her. “Clara, are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again. “I know that I’ve…been away for a while. But I…” he trails off, speaks up after an unbearable stretch of silence. “What I’m trying to say is that you can tell me whatever—”

“I miss you.”

The Doctor is taken aback by her words. His pounding hearts begin to thunder in his ears. “I’m right here,” he says, touching her forehead again after another forced laugh. “It must be the fever talking.”

Comprehension lights Clara’s features, as if she’s just realised what she’s admitted. But before the Doctor can further question her, Clara is already turning away from him, wiping sweat from her brow as her eyes fall close. “Can I have some water, please?” she asks, facing the wall.

The Doctor rises to his feet. “Of course, I’ll be right back.” He pauses at the door and listens as Clara’s breathing slowly evens out before he leaves.

\--

The Doctor is filling up a tall glass with water when he remembers the picture. He reaches into his pocket for it and runs his finger along a crease at the edge. Alone with his thoughts in the kitchen, he takes his time absorbing the photograph. As hard as the Doctor tries, he can’t remember sharing this moment with Clara and it only makes the separation between who he is now and who he was then so much more evident.

For him, it’s been decades since the regeneration, and he knows his previous self like he knows the back of his hand, knows him with the welcomed benefit of distance and pity and regret. And looking at this photo and seeing a different version of himself from long ago, standing with his hand covering Clara’s, only confirms that the inevitable, growing distance between him and Clara is what that Doctor feared most, what he fears most now.

His gaze lingers on Clara as he tries to memorize her expression, the tilt of her head, the curve of her lips. _I miss you_ , she had said. Opened her mouth and let the words slip out. Tentative and hushed, he thinks—he _hopes_ —from how long she’s kept them to herself, as worn and as loved as the photograph he clutches in his hand.

He hopes.

\--

The Doctor is making his way back to Clara’s room when he hears a noise, something akin to a painful groan. A cold grip squeezes his hearts as he moves quickly back to the room. He should not have left her alone for so long. Why did he let himself get so distracted? Why did he leave her side at the reception in the first place?

He pushes the bedroom door open. “Clara,” the Doctor starts, panicked, but falls silent when his gaze lands on the bed.

Clara is awake and oblivious to his intrusion, her dress bunched around her middle and her fingers slowly crawling up her bare thighs. She pulls at her knickers, pushing them down her legs and off her feet before pressing the heel of her palm against her cunt. Clara’s breath hitches and the Doctor feels a consuming, liquid heat rush through him when she, achingly slow, begins to trace her clit, drawing it out, spreading her knees further apart for it.

There’s an audible crash and the Doctor realises he’s lost his hold on the cup. Splinters of glass lay at his shoes and water soaks the hem of his trousers. But he’s only vaguely aware of it because Clara is watching him now, eyes glazed and half-lidded, giving him a look that makes something in his stomach clench painfully, wonderfully.

Clara’s eyes flutter shut as she slowly pushes her index and middle into her wet folds, two knuckles deep. Her back arches, she moans, and her fingers…her fingers…

The Doctor slams the bedroom door closed before he hurries away. He only makes it as far as the console room before he’s leaning heavily against a railing, panting. There’s blood singing in his veins as he tries to clear his head but he can almost imagine what Clara’s thighs would feel like gathered in his hands, her whimpers against his neck, the taste of her on his tongue.

Groaning, the Doctor hastily unbuttons his trousers with trembling fingers, dipping his hand inside and wrapping his fist around his hardening cock. He drags his fingers along his length and palms the tip before he strokes down to the base, repeating the motion again and again. Images of Clara flash through his mind: Clara watching him, ravenous. Clara’s legs parting so willingly for him. Clara’s flushed face crumbling in pleasure as his fingers press deep into her body and deeper still—

The Doctor chokes on his breath as he comes, moaning quietly into his sleeve before he collapses onto the floor. He doesn’t know how he makes it to his room and he doesn’t remember falling asleep. But the Doctor wakes hours later, tangled in his sheets, cold and sticky and alone.

When he works up the nerve to go to the spare bedroom, Clara is gone. The black gown hangs neatly in the bare wardrobe.


	5. V

 

 **v.**  

Even with his high collar, the Doctor feels the blistering sun beating against his neck. He loses his balance as sand comes loose under his feet and he dips to the side. But he trudges on, keeping his gaze focused on Clara who stands several yards ahead of him, as close as she can get to the roaring surf. 

When he finally reaches her, Clara casts an appraising look at him over her shoulder, lips turned up in a hint of a smile. “You actually came,” she says as way of greeting. 

“Of course I did. You asked me to,” the Doctor replies, watching as she unrolls a large towel. 

She holds out her arms once she’s finished, gesturing around them. “So what do you think?”

The Doctor surveys their surroundings. Clear blue sky frames the dark ocean that stretches out before them. To their backs is a large expanse of towering rock the length of the beach. He can just make out a quaint, little cottage sitting on its flat surface and the overgrown grass sprouting at the home’s base. There isn’t another person, he’s certain, for miles.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Clara asks. She’s lying on the towel with an arm thrown over her eyes to block the sun’s glare.

The Doctor doesn’t think it’s lovely. Quite frankly, he thinks it’s bland, almost ugly. How can dark brown sand compare to sand the colour of gold? Or water so clear you can peer in and see the farthest depths of the ocean?

“Why here?” he asks.

“I got a promotion at Coal Hill. Since then, it’s been constant work and stress and parent/teacher meetings. Danny thought it would be a good idea to get away by spending the long weekend here.”

“Congratulations,” the Doctor smiles slightly. The wind picks up, whipping Clara’s hair about her face as she sits up. Her black, sheer cover-up slips off her shoulder and gives him a glimpse of the red bikini top she wears beneath.

She shifts, patting the space beside her and grinning. The Doctor makes sure to look put upon, for appearance’s sake, but sits beside her nonetheless. Clara affectionately bumps her shoulder with his and he returns the gesture and in companionable silence, they watch the waves slap against the sand before hastily retreating.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Doctor,” Clara murmurs, her smile gone. “I don’t know why but you have. It’s been four months since I last saw you. I really didn’t think you’d come this time.”

The Doctor remains quiet. If he denies it, they’ll both know he’s lying. If he tells the truth, he’ll be stumbling into a conversation he’s just not prepared to have right now. But it doesn’t seem like Clara is looking for an explanation or a confrontation. She clearly sees what took him too long to acknowledge, he supposes. If anything, it seems easier this way, this aching, unhurried parting between them. 

“I’m really happy you did though,” Clara says, cupping his shoulder. “Spend the afternoon with me. Just you and me and this beach.”

“What about Danny?”

She points behind her, toward the cottage. “He’s napping.” Clara stands, her eyes on the surf. “What do you say, Doctor?”

He already has an excuse ready, something about such and such planet needing his immediate aid. But he forgets his words when Clara unbuttons her shorts and lets them fall to the ground. She pulls her cover-up over her head and hangs onto the hem as the breeze whistles high and loud in their ears. On the curve of her hip, there’s a pale scar and the Doctor can’t draw his eyes away from it.

“I’m taking your silence as a ‘yes,’” Clara says as she bends down to yank off her trainers. Her grin is back. “I’d ask you to swim with me but one step at a time, yeah?”

Clara strides toward the ocean, her steps measured. The Doctor watches as she slowly lowers herself into the water, pausing briefly as it rises to her midsection before she plunges under the surface. Clara comes up a few moments later, breathing deeply. Smiling bright, she raises a hand to wave at him, her skin glistening and her hair dark and sleek under the sun. The Doctor waves back and wishes he hadn’t come to see her in first place.

When Clara returns to the shore, she says jokingly, “I’m as bad a swimmer as I remember.”

The Doctor is on his feet, offering her the towel. “There’s a storm coming. You should probably go back to the cottage.”

Clara looks to the horizon and briefly watches the sun disappear behind black clouds.

“And let you slip away?” she demands, teasing. “Silly man. You won’t be rid of me that easily.” She reaches for her cover-up and slides it back on. “I want to go for a drive before the storm comes. The car is a bit dinged and the road is more pothole than pavement but we’ll make do. Come on.”

But the Doctor reaches for her, his hand holding her wrist. “You know very well I hate cars.”

He can already picture it: far away from the TARDIS, in the middle of nowhere, and in such a confined space with a woman who usually never takes any of his nonsense? No, if this is going to happen, he’d rather it not be that way.

Clara’s face is a cautious blank as she glances toward the cottage but her pulse is a messy tremble under his fingers. “All right,” she concedes. “What do you suggest?”

The Doctor looks to the ocean, just making out the dark, thick clouds inching closer toward them. He guides Clara to the TARDIS and she follows without a word.

 

* * *

 

Clara hits the water chest first, the force of the impact sending shooting pain right through the center of her torso. Then she is swept below the waves, robbed of her breath, and the Doctor is no longer beside her. She can still feel the weight of his arms wrapped around her shoulders.

Her thoughts of Danny startle her, coming to her unbidden. She was just with him this morning, safe and warm in his embrace, watching him sleep. But she can’t blame anyone else except for herself. She forgot how dangerous travelling with the Doctor was, trusted that he would always keep her safe, even when she never asked him to.

The water is cold and she feels frozen, stiff and heavy as she sinks further down. She doesn’t remember closing her eyes as she fell and in the night time, on this strange planet, the ocean is an inky black that swallows her, almost overwhelms her in its darkness and its silence. For a long moment, Clara remains still, suspended, and she can’t decide if she’s floating or sinking.

Then Clara kicks, uses her arms to move the water beneath her, and breaks the surface, greedily gasping for air. The rain is heavy and deafening, and the waves have their way with her, pulling then pushing her sharply. She looks up into the sky and the spaceship is right above her, hovering just close enough to the surface but too far for her to reach. She can’t see the TARDIS or the Doctor.

A flashing light from the ship lands on her, blinds her in its brightness, and she ducks under the water before she can think twice. Clara tries to swim away but the waves twist at her body and she’s above the surface sooner than she wants to be, coughing roughly when she gulps down salty water.

Clara takes a moment to assess her situation: she is on a planet light years from home, with a ship full of angry Daleks chasing them down, and even now, the panic has not set in. She won’t let it because she knows nothing good will come from giving in to that.

“Clara!” The Doctor’s voice is loud and clear and frantic, cutting through the wind.

“Doctor, I’m here!” The light flashes on her again, and this time a blaring noise follows it, with narrow laser beams shooting in succession across the ocean’s surface. Clara just barely manages to dodge. She tries to warn the Doctor, shouting in the direction she thinks he’s in but her voice gets swallowed up in the maelstrom. 

She dips below the water again, kicking as hard as she can to stay beneath the waves. Clara doesn’t come up again until her lungs burn and when she does, the ship is farther away, the laser beams fanning out in another direction. For the moment, she is grateful she can hide in the darkness of the night, in the chaos of the storm.

Clara wants to call out for the Doctor but thinks better of it. She doesn’t want to draw the attention of that spaceship but she fears she’ll be set adrift if she waits too long, her legs are already growing tired from treading water.

There’s a terrible rumble, then a flash of light that streaks across the sky, casting everything, even the ship, in a white glow. Clara doesn’t waste the opportunity.

“Doctor!”

“Here!” he shouts but she still can’t see him.

They go back and forth, yelling for each other, drawing closer to one another while Clara keeps the position of the spaceship in her peripheral. There’s another clap of thunder and she sees the Doctor’s grey head rising and falling in the waves, his eyes training on her as he swims toward her in quick, sure strokes.

The Doctor is reaching for her when Clara grips his shoulders, and she’s never felt so relieved to have him in her arms. But then Clara’s relief starts to give way to a little dread. Danny doesn’t know where she’s gone. He doesn’t even know that she left him alone in the first place. The Doctor’s knees knock against her thighs as he kicks to stay afloat, forcing her away from her thoughts.

“Are you all right?” she asks. Even this close, Clara can barely make out his face. She lightly taps at his jaw and pushes his sopping hair from his forehead. “Are you injured?” 

The Doctor presses his mouth to her ear. “I should be asking you that,” he whispers and his voice is so familiar and comforting and Clara feels her anxiety diminish just a bit. 

She mimics him, angling her face until their cheeks are pushed together. “I’m all right. But I should have taken you up on those swimming lessons when we were on that fish planet.”

“If you have enough breath to joke, then I think you’ll survive,” the Doctor quips. His tone grows serious. “Whatever you do, don’t stop kicking,” the Doctor instructs. “And keep your head above the water.”

Clara nods but just to make sure he hears her, she says, “Of course.”

The rain is torrential but it’s somehow gotten quieter. When she squints into the darkness beyond the Doctor’s shoulder, she spots the spaceship, much further away and fading gradually into the distance.

“I’ve spotted the shoreline,” the Doctor says. “Let’s swim for it. Follow me.”

He pushes forward, his hand fisting her jacket as he drags her along. Clara tries to keep up with him, to keep kicking and to keep her head above the surface, just like he says. But she feels her body pulling her downward, even with the Doctor clutching her jacket in a vice-like grip. Her back and shoulders ache from the strain.

Clara covers his fist with her fingers. “Doctor,” she calls and he stops immediately, bringing her flush against him. She doesn’t know how to express how she’s feeling but she tries anyway. “I feel heavy.”

Thankfully, the Doctor seems to understand. He tugs at her jacket. “Take this off,” he says.

Right, Clara thinks. Extra weight. She does as she’s told, shrugging off her jacket and she isn’t sure if it’s her adrenaline settling down or shock that kept her from noticing but when Clara strokes a hand along her torso, she feels an awful pain, hot and throbbing, course through her and leave her gasping for breath.

She feels the Doctor’s hand seeking out her own beneath the water, feels his fingers lightly trace along the puncture wound and how in the world—?

“The laser beam,” the Doctor says, as if reading her thoughts. “How badly does it hurt?”

Clara bites the inside of her cheek. It feels like fire crawling under her skin each time the push and pull of water hits them. “I’m fine,” she replies, and silently cheers when her voice does not tremble. “I think it just might be a simple flesh wound or something.” 

She can easily picture the hard line of the Doctor’s mouth when he gently says, “It’s just us, Clara. No need for the bravado.” He removes his own jacket and Clara hears more than sees a tearing noise before he is fastening a firm knot against her injury without warning her. Clara wails and the Doctor quickly covers her mouth. “Breathe through it, Clara. It’ll pass. That’s the only way I can stop the bleeding for now.”

The seconds seem to draw out but eventually, blessedly, the pain subsides and Clara’s breathing evens out. The Doctor removes his hand. “Now for your shoes,” he says before he ducks under, gripping at her knee as he tries to untie her boots. But he’s back up a few moments later, inhaling raggedly. “The laces are too tight. Clara, I need you to float.”

It’s one of the few things she can do well in water but it’s not easy. The rain pours in relentless, icy sheets against her face, making it hard to breathe, and with the force of the waves, she fears she’ll be wrenched away from the Doctor. But he holds her ankle tightly and lifts it up, loosening the knots, pulling at the laces before he eases one boot off her socked foot and drops it into the ocean. Clara fans her arms out to keep her balance as the Doctor works quickly on her second boot. As soon as he finishes, she feels much lighter as she starts to tread water again.

“What about your shoes?” Clara asks as the Doctor brings her close. Their legs tangle together as they try to stay above the water and upright. It feels very natural, almost instinctual, for her hands to rest on his shoulders as he holds her shirt in his grip. Having him physically near settles her nerves. 

“I got rid of those when I was trying to find you.” There’s a loud crash of lightening and Clara can finally make out the Doctor’s features. His eyes, bright and blue and intense, seem to devour the sight of her during those few, precious seconds of light. “Clara, please tell me if you need to take a break, all right? Please.”

Clara nods. The fatigue is steadily creeping up on her, the frigid cold seeping into her bones. But she doesn’t want to tell the Doctor that. For him, she will hold out for as long as she can. “What about the TARDIS? Your sonic screwdriver?”

The Doctor shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. “Let’s make it to shore first and we’ll go from there.” It surprises her when he smiles, when he briefly palms the nape of her neck. “We’re going to be fine,” he reassures her. “We’ve been through so much worse.”

Clara chooses not to say anything. They have been through worse, she supposes. But those instances never seemed as dire as this one feels. Instead, Clara just returns the Doctor’s smile.

 

* * *

 

They swim slowly, carefully wading through the water as they kick gradually, as not to attract the attention of the Dalek spaceship. So far, it’s been a long time since their last sighting of it.

The Doctor tells her not to hurry, to take her time, but even at this dragging pace, it’s difficult for Clara. Every slight movement shifts the knot against her wound, sending stabbing pain through her torso. And with the heavy downpour, she feels half-blind and lost. The Doctor frequently reaching for her shoulder is the only way she can orient herself.

Clara remembers the Doctor talking excitedly about a water world he wanted to show her, with endless oceans and bright, shooting stars that twinkled even during the day. But then the Daleks cornered them, surrounded them, just as the Doctor had landed the TARDIS. 

They were held hostage on the ship for hours until she recklessly took a chance and made a break for it, giving the Doctor a pointed look before tossing herself off the ship just as a Dalek returned from scouting the planet.

And the Doctor followed—he always followed when she ran—just barely managing to wrap his arms around her as she felt the ground leave her feet. Clara still remembers the Daleks’ shrieks of outrage as the turbulent sea drew closer and closer.

Though it’s still raining steadily, the storm has eased somewhat and from time to time, Clara glances about, seeking out the shoreline they’re swimming to. But she sees nothing save for ocean that goes on and on and her stomach drops. The Doctor turns to her then, bringing her to a stop.

“Let’s rest,” he says.

“I’m not tired, Doctor,” Clara replies. “Why don’t we keep going for a little while longer?”

They both know she’s lying but the Doctor doesn’t call her out on it. “I am,” he says. “Lean on me.”

Any other time, Clara would have been embarrassed by her readiness to comply with his instructions. But she doesn’t care right now. She bodily shudders in satisfaction, her legs screaming in relief, when she circles her arms around the Doctor’s neck and leans her entire weight against him. The Doctor carefully places a hand around her middle, away from her injury, and supports her.

“Relax,” he murmurs against her hair and every muscle in Clara’s body goes slack as she sighs. “I’ve got you, Clara.” He whispers reassurances in her ear as he holds her and she wonders if he does it for her or for himself. We’re going to be fine, he says. We’re going to make it. She tries to soak it up, burying her face against his neck and occasionally nodding along to his words, trying not to imagine the Doctor bringing her cold body back to Danny, bloated and deformed.

The rest doesn’t last long enough and the Doctor takes her hands and puts them on his shoulders as he brings his body to the surface so he can float. “How close do you think the shore is?” Clara presses her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering. 

The Doctor meets her gaze. “Not close enough. But we’ll get there.” 

She nods slowly, eyes going to the dark skyline. “We don’t have much of a choice.”

They start to swim again, stopping to tread water when the floodlights from the spaceship pass over the waves close to them. It hovers near the surface but eventually turns away from their direction, finally going out toward the open sea before rocketing off into the air. After only a few minutes, the spaceship disappears beyond the stormy clouds and Clara and the Doctor are alone. She is not foolish enough to think the Daleks have given the Doctor up for dead. They’ll cross paths again, if not now, then soon. 

“One less thing to worry about,” the Doctor sighs.

With the ship’s departure, rain and rumbling thunder are their only company. A particularly strong wave rushes for them, lifting them up and dropping them down and they cling to each other as they kick to stay above it. Even after the wave has passed, the Doctor and Clara just hold each other and she can’t remember a time she was ever this physically close to him, always touching, fingers constantly seeking purchase.  

Before Clara can dwell too much on the thought, she jokes, “By the time we’re through here, I think you’re going to _love_ giving me hugs.” 

The Doctor chuckles under his breath, says, “Never.”

His palm slips along her arm and the touch is too familiar, makes her remember vague thoughts of the last time they were alone. A wedding, she recalls, laughing and smiling and dancing and trying not to stare into each other’s eyes. Always pretending not to see what is so obviously there, so ingrained in them that it feels instinctual to be this insincere. And then the Doctor decides to disappear for months, no matter how many times she calls.

Whatever this is—Clara is not sure what to call it anymore—is tenuous and fragile, and will fall apart in her hands with a look that lingers for too long, with a question that presses for too much. So Clara breaks apart from the Doctor before he can tighten his hold on her.

“Come on, Doctor,” she says, avoiding his eyes. “We have to keep going.”

“We’re getting closer,” he assures her.

No, Clara thinks, we’re barely moving.

 

* * *

 

They continue to swim but minutes later her stiff muscles, her injury, her everything, start screaming in agony. She is exhausted and she can feel what little she has left quickly dwindling. Clara doesn’t even realise she dipped below the surface until she inhales cold water. It happens so fast but she pushes herself up, coughing violently and feeling the first pulse of fear settle in her chest and course down to her gut.

“Clara!”

It happens again, seconds later. She swallows more water this time, takes longer to force herself to the surface because she can’t kick hard enough. Clara’s first pinprick of fear crumbles under a flood of outright terror, and by the third time, she can’t even fight it. The waves are too high and she goes under easily. This time, beneath the waves, the silence is almost comforting, welcomed.

They are too far, not even close to the shore because she can’t even see it. And she is going to drown, can picture icy water filling her, burning her lungs, her body flailing then stilling as she sinks lower and lower into the abyss. All that’s left is for her to breathe in one more time and—

Clara feels her arm _yanked_ _up_ and she’s above the water once more, sputtering.

“Clara!” The Doctor’s voice, sharp and hard, is right next to her ear. His features hold a fleeting look of panic. “Are you all right?” He’s embracing her before she can answer him, holding her so tight that she can barely move. She shakes a little and she can feel the Doctor tremble too, from weariness or from the cold, she is not certain.

The Doctor caresses the back of her head and she relishes the moment. It’s reflex now, to want to touch him when he touches her, to reciprocate. So Clara hugs him back, rests her face on his collarbone, and realises what she just did seconds ago. She thinks that her blood and her mind must have gone numb with acceptance because she understands with a newfound clarity she never had before. 

There is no shore, at least not for her. She is meant to be here until the sea consumes her whole and leaves nothing behind. But she knows the Doctor will rage against it, will go down kicking and screaming, because he is always at his finest when he is most tenacious. But Clara refuses to let the Doctor doom himself for a lost cause. Anyone else in her position would appreciate her logic. Maybe even encourage her. If she can keep the Doctor safe, nothing else matters.

Her final thought slips into place when the Doctor’s mouth skims along her cheek. Clara does the same to him because if she’s not going to make it, when she dies out here, at least—

Clara suddenly pushes him away from her, shoves at the water so there’s a bit of distance between them and the Doctor scrambles for her. “Clara! What are you doing?” 

She ignores him, kicking harder and moving further away from him. It’s dark enough, she could just turn her back on the Doctor, duck under water, and swim away. If she did that, then he wouldn’t be able to chase her, no matter how much he tried, no matter how loud he shouted for her. But then again, she could just stay underwater until her breath ran out. It would hurt certainly but that way…that way… 

“Clara,” the Doctor calls and it brings her back to the present. She can’t name the emotion in his voice but he accentuates every word. “What are you doing?”

“I’m very injured,” Clara states calmly and she doesn’t think she’s felt this calm in her life. “I can barely keep up with you. We both know it.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence from him, long enough that Clara thinks he didn’t hear her. Then, “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that I’m slowing you down.” She cocks her head in the direction she thinks the shore is. “You should go. You can make it without me.” And Clara is so grateful for the shadows and the darkness that shield his expression from her. She would never have the nerve to do what she is doing or say what she is saying in broad daylight, with his eyes boring in hers. “You know what I’m saying is true,” she continues. 

But then his voice carries over the downpour, livid and loud and scared. “ _Have you gone mad?_ ”

The Doctor’s voice breaks on the last word, she knows it does, and Clara feels her stomach clench with nausea as her throat tightens painfully. She is the one making him feel this way, this angry, this frightened. But she won’t back down. Not now. 

“Think about it,” Clara reasons gently. “Just—Just think about it. You…you are a Time Lord—” 

“Don’t you dare say it!”

“You are the Doctor!” she snaps. “Do you even realise how important you are to this universe?  You are irreplaceable. The worst that can happen is that you will regenerate but you will still be alive.” 

“The worst that can happen?” he repeats. “Do you honestly believe that’s the worst that can happen?” 

“Yes,” Clara says. “I’m not a hero. I’m not you. I’m just your companion and I knew the risks when I chose to travel with you. So please. Do this as a favour for me. Let me be brave, even if it means this.” 

“Just my companion.” The Doctor’s voice grows quiet. He swims toward her and Clara swims back.

“Doctor, no,” she says. “Please.” 

The Doctor doesn’t listen to Clara’s protests as he swims closer to her again. “You are trying to throw your life away needlessly. I won’t let you.” 

She startles at the statement. “I’m not. If it’s for you, if I’m helping save you in any way, I’m not.” 

He’s near and from this close, Clara sees the painful, enraged expression he wears. “How can you possibly think I would ever leave you?” 

“Doctor, don’t,” she warns, shaking her head. 

He snatches Clara by the shoulders and gathers her up in his arms. The Doctor wheezes with each exhale and Clara can feel his fatigue, his frustration, radiating off his body. “You daft girl,” he growls. “Isn’t it obvious by now how much I need you?” He stops with a shuddering pant, starts again. “After all this time, how can you not know that you are…?” But the Doctor trails off, breathing hard, trembling. “Don’t you know?” 

A wave of comprehension hits Clara and leaves her breathless in the wake of its force. This is their limit, she realises. There’s nothing left. No more excuses about their relationship. No more avoiding what they’ve tried to for so long. The rainstorm has washed all that away, left them absolutely exposed, and they stare at each other with a new understanding, with all their emotions left out in the open. 

And Clara doesn’t understand it anymore, why they ran from each other, why they stupidly thought they could keep fighting against the unstoppable force that always pulled them together. What in the world were they trying to protect themselves from? 

The Doctor cups her face, and his eyes are just as turbulent as the wildest storm. “Don’t run,” he whispers. “Stay with me.” 

Clara nods and rests her cheek in his palm. “Always.” 

They come impossibly close and Clara whispers apologies in the Doctor’s ear when he sags against her in relief, when he makes a low sound in the back of his throat. She kicks for the both of them, stroking his neck and concentrating on the sound of his ragged breathing. And for a moment, Clara can’t hear the storm or see the endless darkness surrounding them or feel the frigidness in her joints. All she sees and hears and feels is the Doctor. 

You are my everything, she confesses silently. 

The Doctor draws one, two, three heavy inhales before he’s kicking with her, moving with her. “Let’s go,” Clara says and the Doctor solemnly nods. 

She’s frozen all over but she ignores it, pushes through it, as she attempts to swim all out. The Doctor is right beside her, swimming hard, checking for her every other time he comes up for air. When a wave falls over them or when the wind howls too loudly, the Doctor will call out for her and she’ll answer back. They keep going like this for what seems like hours. 

But then Clara sees it, the shore, huge and beckoning along the edge of the skyline, right in front of her, with large, mountainous cliffs and gold sand. The Doctor must see it too because he is pushing at her back, moving her forward. Even the pain in her torso doesn’t keep her from swimming faster and harder. 

A large wave slaps against their backs and she rushes forward, losing her footing, but the Doctor’s death grip on her blouse stops her from going under. Then tide returns, pushing at her chest and Clara swims against it until her socked feet tentatively touch solid sand. 

She stumbles forward and the water gradually recedes to her neck, her shoulders, and finally her waist. The tide almost pushes her back into the water but the Doctor is beside her, grabbing her hip when she takes another tumble, and together they push forward, limp their way through shallow water and wet sand until they’re on dry land. 

Clara collapses, swallowing gulps of air as she looks up at grey clouds. Her body aches with relief and pain and she listens to the Doctor’s gasps next to her like a siren’s song. She doesn’t know whether to burst into tears or scream with joy. They are alive, she is alive, and with each breath she takes, she feels cleansed, different in ways she doesn’t know how to explain. A quiet storm churns inside of her that matches the beat of her heart. She wants to tell the Doctor, to reach out for him but she’s too exhausted to move. 

“We made it,” she whispers, her breathing evening out, then slowing and softening. She can’t keep her teeth from chattering. “Doctor, we made it.” 

The Doctor turns to Clara, shakes so badly that it’s difficult for him to get a good grip on her but he manages. He touches her everywhere, the length of her arms, the dip in her waist, the curve of her hip, the soles of her feet, carefully checking for any injuries he may have missed. Then the Doctor gives his wrist two, hard shakes and Clara watches as his hand glows a bright shade of yellow she instantly recognises. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Healing you.” 

Clara grips his elbow, stopping him. “No. What about your next regeneration? What if something goes wrong?”

The Doctor half-shrugs, says, “I’ll probably lose an arm or a leg along the way but that’s all right.” 

Clara wants to protest but as if sensing her reluctance, the Doctor’s gaze quickly sharpens to a warning glare. She grows still for a moment then lets go of his elbow and carefully unties his jacket, exposing her open wound to the Doctor. 

When he rests his hand against her injury, Clara chokes on her breath. What she feels—the melding of his energy with hers—is something she can barely comprehend. It’s wondrous and unbearable all at once, endless. But by her next exhale, the Doctor is moving his hand away and there is no trace of her wound.

“Doctor,” Clara starts. She wants to apologise again, to thank him. But she falls quiet when he drags her to him, hooking his chin on top her head. 

“Not another word, Clara Oswald,” he says. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

She answers by bringing her arms around his middle and pressing her face to his chest. They stay huddled for a long time, shivering together.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they gather the strength to get up and start down the sandy beach.

They find the TARDIS near a cluster of jagged rocks, right where the Doctor left her, a bright and blue beacon against the grey skyline and the black ocean.

Away from the water and the wet surf, underneath a blanket and wrapped up in the Doctor, the warmth comes gradually. Clara feels her skin thaw first, feels the numbness leave her fingers and her toes, and then finally feels the want, as strong and as loud as a crashing torrent, pushing at her hands, asking for permission.

She uncurls a fist from the Doctor’s shirt and tentatively skims her thumb just beneath, on bare, wet skin. The Doctor lifts his head to look down at her, and in the dim light of the TARDIS, his eyes are dark and simmering with heat. And her heart—that disloyal thing, that fragile thing—stutters and pounds so heavily that she can feel a steady beat in her fingertips when she fists her hands. 

Clara doesn’t fight it, doesn’t really want to. What she wants is to loosen each button of the Doctor’s shirt. She wants to run her palms down his shoulders, along his chest. She wants him to press his tongue into her mouth, wants him to fill her lungs and seal himself up in her veins until she’s drowning in him. She wants, she wants, she wants.

Her open palm replaces her thumb, and the Doctor releases a shaky breath as gooseflesh break out all over his skin. She knows it’s not from the cold. 

It’s not too late, Clara thinks, splaying her fingers across his chest. She could ask the Doctor to go, just open her mouth and force the words out, and they could pretend this never happened, root their feet in the sand and not dare let the rising tide envelop them because she is afraid of being sucked out to sea with no means of rescue, she is— 

“We can’t go back,” she says, bringing her thoughts to a standstill. 

The Doctor cradles her other hand in his, presses a weak smile to her knuckles. He nods. “I know.” His smile fades and his expression grows sombre. “I know.”

Clara gives him a long, searching look before she gingerly shifts forward and swings her leg out and over his knees. She settles herself slowly onto his lap, gently bringing him up into a sitting position, never breaking eye contact. Water drenches his damp clothes when she moves her thighs just so. He keeps his palms planted on the mattress, his knuckles just brushing Clara’s knees. 

Her eyes soften as she cards her fingers through his wet hair, her thumbs stroking his cheeks and leaving droplets of water behind. Her hands spread out below his collarbones and her fingers curl around his shoulders. Clara presses her hands against the Doctor’s vest, sweeps them over his chest, and watches carefully as a shaking breath slips from his parted lips when she repeats the motion again and again. 

The Doctor hesitates for only a moment before he brings his hands up to Clara’s waist, his palms so broad and fingers so long they almost encircle her entire middle. Clara is as warm and as soft as he remembers. And everything in his consciousness narrows down to this very moment with her. 

Still tentative, the Doctor slides his fingertips lightly over her ribcage, below her breasts. Clara swallows hard, goose bumps rise on her skin, and under the thin material of her blouse, he sees her nipples swell and visibly harden. Adrenaline shivers its way down his spine at the sight, makes his nerves sing, and a familiar ache settles in his stomach and between his legs, right where her body meets his. 

Clara takes another unsteady breath when his fingers skim her ribs again, his thumbs inching just a bit higher. “I…” she trails off. 

The Doctor tries to speak but his voice is caught in his throat. Clara’s palms cupping his cheeks bring his attention to her eyes. The way she gazes at him now reminds the Doctor of the longing he has kept so close to himself.

Years had come and gone since his regeneration and every intimate moment they had once shared—every furtive look and every sure touch—had become a far-flung memory. Forced into a box in the deepest, murkiest parts of his mind, locked away the instant he felt himself ripped from one body and shoved into another. But now, having Clara before him like this makes the Doctor keenly aware of how much he has missed her, missed this. All of it has boiled down to this. 

“I want,” Clara starts again. She brushes her cheek against his and the Doctor, in turn, leans into her, letting the tip of his nose touch her earlobe. 

“Anything, anything,” he whispers into her neck. 

Clara brings their foreheads together and their mouths graze. “Just this,” she murmurs before she leans forward and closes the gap. The Doctor _mmms_ quietly when he finally, _finally_ feels Clara’s soft mouth touch his. It’s a chaste kiss, just a delicate press of lips. But then Clara gently bites his lower lip, slowly slides the tip of her tongue against it, sucks at it so slowly and thoroughly that the ache in his cock becomes a steady throb. The Doctor’s head reels and for an instant, it feels like he’s back in the ocean, twisting helplessly in the current with Clara as the only thing anchoring him. 

The Doctor encircles her wrists in his fingers, feels her pulse under her skin, quick and shallow, and uses his hold to pull Clara’s arms around his neck. She slowly pushes her hips down, drags his length, inch by inch, between her legs and the friction, her warmth, makes the Doctor tremble and moan into her mouth. 

Clara tightens her hold on his neck as their kiss grows more urgent. And with each hot, wet slide of her tongue against his, a sweet, liquid heat builds deep in his body. And Clara is so lithe and supple and his groin is tightening with a pleasure not yet demanding release but demanding more of his attention each time she thrusts deliberately against him and—

Clara’s mobile rings, shrill in the palpable quiet.

She draws her face back quickly, panting heavily. The Doctor looks up at her, notes the glazed, unfocused look in her dark eyes, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her soaked, dishevelled hair, and the image is seared into his head.

Clara reaches for the mobile but the Doctor rests his hand on top of hers. She stares at him and he doesn’t know what to say but he wants to say everything that comes to mind. _Don’t_. _Let it ring_. _Stay_. Her mobile continues to cut through the silence and the Doctor clenches her fingers in his in palm, his stare hardening.

On the last ring, Clara yanks her hand free and flips her mobile open. “Hey, Danny,” she greets. Clara is smiling into the receiver but her smile does not reach her eyes. The Doctor lies back against the mattress and pretends he can hear heavy, pelting rain.

 

* * *

 

When they return to the little cottage, the Doctor keeps the TARDIS several yards away, under the awning of a closed bakery. The long, winding road that leads to the cottage is deserted in the rainstorm and beneath the eerie glow of the lamp posts, the light reflecting on the concrete reminds Clara of the black sea. 

For a length of time, they stand in silence in front of the cottage, Clara watching Danny move about in the kitchen and the Doctor keeping his attention on the coastline and overcast afternoon. 

“For a long, long time after your regeneration,” Clara starts quietly, “I didn’t know what I meant to you anymore. You were right. I did look at you differently but not for the reasons you suspected. Something was wrong with us, Doctor. Something was broken and I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know if you wanted to fix it. I just remember thinking to myself, over and over, ‘Well, what I am supposed to do with all these feelings I still have for you?’ 

“But I wanted to respect your wishes. Having you as my dear friend was better than not having you at all. Despite that, despite whatever you thought or assumed, whatever I may have said in the past, believe me when I say that my feelings for you never changed, Doctor.” 

She feels the distinct crowding of body heat as the Doctor covers the space between them, when his fingers graze the slope of her chin and his palm cups her cheek, turning her to face him. 

“All this time?” he whispers. 

The front door to the cottage swings open and Danny stands at the threshold, one of Clara's pink, frilly aprons tied snugly around his waist and a hand on his hip. Clara watches him playfully brandish a cream-coated whisk in her direction. 

“Oi, Oswald! Get in here right now and help me with this salmon. So help me if you didn't bring the champagne like you promised.” 

As she looks at Danny, a terrible sensation pulls at the pit of her stomach and Clara realises it's guilt. She turns to her right, where the Doctor should be. But like she anticipated, he's gone. Not a single trace of him save for the lingering heat of his hand against her face, gone before she can even give him her answer: Yes. Always yes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! For those who left kudos, bookmarks, and comments so far, thank you for your patience and I apologise for the delay. The next chapter should be up in the next week or two. Kudos are loved and comments are always appreciated. Thanks, again!


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